A Battle of Minds
by NCISthemedname
Summary: Two of the brightest minds in the world meet. How will it all turn out? Does Sherlock best Dr. Spencer Reid or can the doctor outwit the consulting detective?


John and Sherlock walked into the New Scotland Yard early Monday morning after receiving a vague phone call from Lestrade. Vague didn't catch Sherlock's attention. But three weeks without a case was driving John mad. He forced Sherlock to take the case. Standing with Lestrade were two men and a young woman. Clearly American.

"Sherlock, John, meet American FBI SSA Aaron Hotchner," Lestrade said, gesturing to the older dark haired man. "Communications Liaison SSA Jennifer Jareau, and Dr. Spencer Reid. This is Sherlock – "

"I can make my own introductions, Lestrade," Sherlock said coldly. John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." He did not meet Hotch's outstretched hand. Instead, he plunged his hands deeper into his coat. "This is my colleague – "

"Dr. John Watson." John shook Hotch's hand.

"Yes, well," Sherlock cleared his throat, "this is hardly a crime scene. So why am I here, Lestrade? Not more of your incompetence, is it?"

"Sherlock," John warned, afraid of what the FBI agents would think.

"Well, that's what I was getting to if you wouldn't act like such a tit," Lestrade snapped. Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow. "There's been a murder in a flat near the Thames. These FBI agents were already here for a seminar and I thought we could use their help."

"We will help in anyway – " Hotch started.

"Get rid of them," Sherlock replied, pulling at his scarf. "I don't need help."

"He's only joking," John retorted quickly. "Sherlock, behave!" he whispered harshly.

"Sir, we don't mean to step on anybody's toes – " JJ said.

"It's Sherlock and you did: mine. Lestrade, where's the crime scene?" Lestrade opened his mouth before another voice cut in.

"Your superiority complex won't get you very far, Mr. Sherlock." Reid look slightly shocked at his own words but quickly recovered. Sherlock slowly turned to face the young doctor. John rolled his eyes and prepared for the onslaught to come.

"Dr. Reid, is it? I can take one look at you and could tell you your own life story. I do not need your help."

"Try it." Sherlock scanned Reid quickly.

"You are highly intelligent, 180 to 190 range. I can tell by the way your watch goes over your cuff, a sign of genius or autism. I believe you to be both. Your darkened eyes tell me you've suffered nightmares recently and often. Something to do with your mother, I presume. Your left thumb nail is chewed off, sign of worry which I assume you do while writing her letters. Fading and fresh ink on the side of your hand. You write often. You hold yourself aloof from your colleagues, signaling fear or anxiety. I will go with the latter as your revolver, hardly standard issue for an FBI agent, is showing outside of your sweater. That tells me that you want them to believe you to be as capable as they are but they will never see you as an equal. Your intelligence and fragile life will never let you be equals. You were a highly intelligent boy, a boy in a high school full of teenagers who bullied you. I say that because you are very young for an FBI agent with so many years of experience. That I've read online. And you have a mother who has a mental illness, one you fear of inheriting, I care not which one. No father figure until you joined this team. The way you glance at SSA Hotchner tells me you hold him in the highest respect, something rarely done if you have an acceptable father figure."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"He told me to, John. Sod off," Sherlock snapped. "Your bag, at its breaking point and new, contradicts that of your colleagues': old but stable. You carry many books on your travels. Well read, genius, your mother must have started your education in literature at a young age. She was perhaps a literature professor of some sort. The state of your teeth, slightly browned and corroded, say that you drink a substantial about of sugar and coffee. Many sleepless night athat only a sugar rush can fix. You live alone. No hair or fur cover your clothes but they are not pressed. You value knowledge over appearance. By the way you hold yourself, I'd say your wardrobe changed recently, within the past year, and you are still unaccustomed to it. Changed to something more age appropriate and fashionable, by a woman. Her, I presume," he said, nodding towards JJ. "Your clothing choices are similar today. Hardly coincidence unless both tastes were chosen by the same person. Outside of work you have no friends." He clapped his hands. "Did I miss anything?"

"God, Sherlock," John sighed, closing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair.

"You're a younger child," Reid snapped. Sherlock looked intrigued.

"Go on, Doctor."

"You try to outshadow him which has led to your attempt to outshadow everyone around you. You feel alone by the way you shield yourself with your jacket and scarf. Also, you introduced Dr. Watson as "colleague," not friend, which he is clearly to you. But you disassociate the two because you continue to feel alone. You also feel out of place due to your own intelligence and everyone's fear of your intelligence. You show-off to impress those around you but fail to realize what they really think of you. You only prize those who are equal to you and refuse those who are not. You do not see yourself as a hero. You side with the angels but are not, for a second, one of them. You are a sociopath but not a complete danger to the immediate public. That's why Detective Inspector Lestrade has not arrested you yet."

"Not indefinitely, anyway," John muttered. Sherlock looked at him sternly. He returned his look to Reid and thought for a moment.

"John," he finally said, "phone Mrs. Hudson. I think we are out of tea. Doctor, I think you and I would enjoy a conversation after this case."


End file.
